Ouroboros
by Pterobat
Summary: An aging Lantas copes with the difficulties of an expanded lifespan, reminding herself of what she has to live for.


**Ouroboros**

"This is a generous affair, Lantas. What would you say your motivation is?"

"Everyone needs to remember their past. The clones' descendents need to recall _why_ they are allowed opportunities. Hopefully it will encourage them not to squander them."

"Will you be designing the museum yourself?"

"I will, though I'll have help, and the rest of our group will have input into its contents."

"There are those who say that since your people never had any intention of forming a separate society, and their children share none of their distinguishing traits, that any attempt to remember the past is just opening old wounds."

"It's never wasteful to be aware. The past enables you to better confront the future. Just because it has already occurred doesn't mean it has disappeared."

Sheta, the interviewer, was a tall Tirolian female with blond hair and a few scars from some unknown incident. "That sounds almost like something Exedore Formo would say."

Oh, damn. So now _another_ one was going to claw at her private life.

Sheta went on. "After all, it's common wisdom that being married to the same person for so long might make it hard to tell the difference."

"We are not married." She would just steel herself against this and continue on. "We just reached a similar legal status, but technically he is not my husband."

"Don't you think it's past time? You're already overqualified as far as the time factor is concerned."

"We don't see the point. For one thing, why would we be interested in a ceremony when we can't have the coveted cross-section of our entire lives attend it?"

"That's the ceremonial part covered; but why not make it official otherwise?"

Lantas scowled.

"Is it because you are still unsure if it will last forever?"

"That was never the reason," Lantas snapped, as she caught herself.

"So; what is your secret for _that_ particular longevity?"

"Respect for individual privacy, for one thing."

Sheta's eyes widened, but her posture was unchanged.

Someone in the audience snickered.

She had to stop this. Sheta was not skirting the boundaries of protocol; she was blithely jumping over them. "And I was invited here to discuss my work, wasn't I?"

Blinking for a moment, Sheta then went on. "Based on your history, would you say that revisiting the past is a theme with you?"

"You know that it is. And I know there's been speculation that it is related to the length of my lifespan. I can say that that is part of the reason, but I'm hardly ready for the Bedlam just yet."

"And does that exploration of the past help you cope with living so long?"

Lantas went cold again. She had observed Sheta's interview techniques before, and the other woman had seemed bland and harmless; Lantas wasn't interested in having the depths of her psyche plumbed, and had agreed to interviews which didn't seem to promise that.

But she made her mouth move. "Keeping busy. You must have flexible interests and a broad range of them, as well as an insatiable curiosity, an ability to see even the smallest alterations as new and exciting, with a vivid imagination."

"As you know, lifespan enhancements are becoming legal again. Would you give this advice to those interested in it?"

"I am not going to tell anyone how they should live. If they end up regretting doing it, then at least they were allowed to make their own mistakes."

"Yes, but if it depended on you, what would you say to a potential candidate?"

Lantas marshalled her defences again, and reminded herself to be more polite. "It takes a particular temperament to survive such a state, including the qualities that I have just mentioned. One must be certain that they can weather the shedding of one life and the gaining of a new one, again and again."

"Would you say that you have stayed so long with Exedore because you are the only ones who do not disappear from each other's lives?"

Lantas thrust her pointed jaw forward. "Ours is not an alliance of convenience."

"Then what would you say the reasons are?"

Lantas looked away from Sheta and straight into the recording plate, before standing up. "I am finished here." They would watch her in close-up, watch as she walked out of frame.

"T-Thank you, that will be all," Sheta finished.

----

It was only outside that Lantas could sag and sigh. Every generation seemed to breed a certain kind of people, with bright eyes and brighter grins, auras of glittering falsity or overbearing earnestness, whose questions were always more intrusive than their innocent demeanour suggested, and much more than the interviewers should be allowed.

And there was the other side to it, too. Sheta's voice had carried those familiar notes of pity: _Are you lonely?_ _Are you depressed?_ _Do you miss your old life? Have you seen so much of that old bone-bag that you're just ready to scream, but can't abandon him because you depend so much on each other?_

To that last question, Lantas would have flippantly replied with something harsh and cutting, but increasingly that was proving to be a weak defence.

She straightened herself up, a lean, angular woman in a black bodysuit and orange tabard with white boots. Her long, curled hair was bright pink with some grey winding through it, framing an elongated, pointed face that was slightly marked by age.

She could feel it rolling up in her, all the questions and the fears and the memories of all the deaths she had endured. It was all just repeating patterns, happening over again. Where could she find novelty, strength, calmness?

Lantas rubbed her temples, her head pounding along with her heart. She had had these phases before, and dealt with them. She just had to remember her reasons for living.

She thought of her work, mostly still in architecture and design but other subjects, other projects. She thought of her friends, and Exedore. She thought of the warm sun, the blue sky, the energy of movement and creativity, the new discoveries that were always being made. She had to ride it out now, endure, so that she would turn back to loving life again.

At least she had a fortress to retreat to.

----

The mansion was a curious thing; two levels, each a house onto itself. Lantas owned the top level, Exedore the lower. Yes, they were still together, but this division offered a level of comfort and freedom.

There was an outside stair, leading up to a balcony that allowed Lantas to bypass his front entrance and enter through her door at the top.

Underneath the prism-shaped roof, the inside of Lantas' level was all columns and carvings, the doors adorned with images of animals real and fanciful, frozen in circling, twisting battle.

Lantas crossed the foyer and settled herself into one of the spherical chairs that hung from the ceiling by a tripod of chains. It spun slowly as she stuffed herself inside it.

From where she sat, she had a good view of the tanks in the main hall. They brewed with dark water and bizarre sea life, some whose relatives had been dissected by her in another of her forays.

Around them, the walls resembled wood, and were ornamented with artworks and scientific diagrams. Some were retroactive in style, others were proudly modern.

Everywhere there were pictures or small holograms of those she had known or still knew: Cabell, the other "immortals", some other Zentraedi, Humans, beings of other races beyond those, some covering generations of the same families, others single individuals. There were images from the worlds she had traveled, and in a much lower number, artefacts from these journeys.

Most of these items were not ones who had followed her throughout her life. Hardly any of her belongings were worth the effort of total, hermetic preservation, and so she would await their natural degeneration, or donate them to museums where they could be better kept, though some items she had made the effort to sustain.

The awards, the pictures, the gifts, and the journals were mostly what Lantas tried to save, and she had done it, keeping involved with new transmission and preservation technologies putting them to good use.

But today, as she stared at them, she could feel again the crushing nature of it. She truly owned nothing. All her achievements would be forgotten, all her things would wither.

Lantas tried to control her breathing. She reminded herself that she was doing far better than would be expected based on the cautionary stories about immortality told through mouths, pages, and computer screens, tales that many races shared.

But she was not immortal, and neither was Exedore. Perhaps that made all the difference.

Still, that was what the public had nicknamed them, the clones who had been given the same expanded lifespan, to be a part of an empire that died long before its masters had wanted it to, leaving pet clones like her with centuries left in which to find their own existence.

And if it weren't for the other "immortals" (the public's word, not theirs), she would indeed have found it harder to deal with this.

There were the other alien races who lived much longer than Tirolians, and some had their own immigrant communities here, but they were not...they did not have the experience of living longer than _normal_ for the species, and that of growing into complexity after being toys for so long, but their insight was still welcome.

Some of the clones had still been unable to cope, and they had been mourned but not blamed. And the others who had continued on had also been exposed to the same questions as she had, and Lantas could not think of herself as a special case, some peculiar item that the media focused all their attention on.

Lantas reached into the cushions behind her and took out a jar and wand. The bubbles she blew floated across the room and popped. She was not so fragile, she had to remember.

----

"Lantas, is there anything the matter?"

After hearing him come home, she had descended an inner staircase, hidden in the walls, and come out on the lower level. They had sometimes pre-arranged these meetings with each other, yet just as often had come to it spontaneously.

Exedore's area looked different. Its walls were smooth and sand-coloured, with niches of various sizes serving in the place of shelves. There was less artwork and decorations, but the area was not entirely devoid of them, including a huge Zentraedi emblem in metallic silhouette which dominated one wall.

Strategy games were on display in several places, activities which Lantas had little of an appetite for, but she had obliged Exedore many times. The Zentraedi understanding of strategy had been primitive, so it wasn't as if Exedore had won every game they'd played.

But Lantas knew what all this looked like. Instead she watched Exedore. He was a Zentraedi, originally giant "cousins" to the Tirolian clones, and broke all of the stereotypes others might have of his people: he was intelligent, kindly, and clear-headed, but no folktale sage, possessed of a sharpness and an unwillingness to look away from the harshness of the world.

And he was hers.

The lines on Exedore's face had multiplied and deepened, and his hair, which he now wore in a cut similar to his original Zentraedi style, had gone almost entirely white. His eyes were still oversized instead of being sunken away, making Exedore look like he was wearing glasses, according to Shizu, another of the "immortals", who had a fixation on ancient Earth culture.

He wore a wide-sleeved blue robe that hid his feet, with a purple overgarment like a toga, secured at the shoulder by a small Zentraedi insignia pin which he had made himself. Exedore still always chose from the same narrow set of colours and styles for his clothing, but Lantas didn't mind; it was a sign that they were different, had not become interdependent. No matter what fools like Sheta implied.

"Another redundant interview," Lantas lied, not sure why she did so. "The same questions. I never liked being seen as some sort of...novelty item. You understand."

Of course he did, being the only Zentraedi on Tirol, and the only Micronized one in existence. With his grey-brown skin, could not visually pass for a Tirolian of any time, and would always be slightly alien to them.

"They are such foolish creatures," Exedore said.

The table was shaped like an elongated triangle, with them sitting on either long edge. They were neither gourmets nor gourmands, but had found some measure of interest in such things. Today their meal consisted of a giant fruit each, whose bitter but edible skin was to be cut off and eaten first, to enhance the perception of the flavour of the interior.

"Anyone with even a modicum of intelligence ought to be able just to investigate the archives and see that their questions have already been answered. It is not as if we starve that much for something to do."

"Don't we?" she said, wryly.

Exedore leaned forward. "But what, truly, is it that agitates you?"

Caught. She should not have felt such shame at the truth. "I'm into a bad cycle again. I wonder about everything, see it being destroyed. I wonder why I try at all. It's shameful."

"Lantas, that is hardly true," Exedore got up, and she heard him walking behind her, then felt his hands on her shoulders. He bent down and kissed the top of her head. "Neither of us are invincible; we all experience such difficulties. But we have survived, and we shall keep surviving."

"I don't think...I'm hungry anymore."

"Come and sit with me."

They were soon together on the couch. Exedore put his arm around her waist, and leaned into Lantas, because she was taller.

She said, "You have your people to look after, to help sustain; it motivates you to keep doing better, doing your best. But I'm alone. I don't play that role, and it might be harder for me to keep a grip on things."

Exedore shook his head. "You have made your own destiny from the beginning. My occupation depends entirely upon the good graces of my people, while you ultimately work only for yourself."

He paused, shifted position. "Recall all that you have done, and all that you have yet to do. No mater how many repetitious patterns you perceive, is every day entirely the same? Would you rather be cold, senseless, thoughtless, mindless?" Words that could have been harsh were spoken softly, but with insistence, lucidity.

Exedore continued. "Yes, trophies and accolades mean little if you are not comfortable with yourself. But why are you not?"

"Because...I don't know. It just feels like everything is slipping through my fingers."

"Ah. You miss them, just as all of us do." He meant the generations of friends they had outlived. "There is never any disgrace in such a thing. But do you wish to live?"

She had to try to let him reach her. "I do." She kneaded his withered hand with hers. "I am not going to go away." But....

Sheta had not been the first to look at the two of them and asked what their secret was, hoping to find some esoteric method to help them preserve their own bonds. Lantas was asked the most often, because she was female, because she seemed to be more outgoing (though only in comparison to him), and because Exedore was still seen as foreign.

But it was difficult to provide answers, when the longevity of their relations had come as a surprise to them as well, not because their affiliation had been particularly tempestuous or eerily perfect, but because it was a shocking bit of fancy for the first mate to become the most important one.

And a few of these natural-born Tirolians also knew, and were disgusted with, the things that the "immortals" had done among themselves: shifting, casual trysts, known by them all, done also with the short-lived others. Sheta might even have known of this polyamory, too, and had been mocking Lantas during the interview.

Lantas did less of it than most, finding that the acquisition of new knowledge and the starting of new projects mostly satisfied any hunger for novelty she might have.

But Exedore had let her, accepted it, and he had indulged, too, though even less than her.

It was a strange thing to be doing, but when you had such time, it seemed that the mind began to work differently, to see things in a different perspective. But most "immortals" still kept a core consort or spouse, and had all agreed that if the casual dalliances developed into something more, then they would inform their original mates post-hate. (Though Lantas suspected that not all had adhered to those rules)

But it had always come back to Exedore. Why? There had been the exoticism of course, and the shared experience of becoming fuller beings, something which somehow demanded to be treasured rather than treated as another step in the path to maturity. But there was more beyond that, a mutual love that was cerebral, appealing to their own peculiarities but feeling as lovely as anything more conventional.

And sometimes, the weight of time seemed so immense, and it was impossible to see why any bonding should last. But she would accept his consolations of all kinds, and find herself ready again. She had to.

***

Allegra's singing filled the room, supplemented by the advanced instrument that her fingers tapped. Musica kept time with her flute, manipulating its multiple branches as easily as her fingers had once sang over the Cosmic Harp, which had controlled and pacified the other Tirolian clones.

When the old boundaries had dissolved, the Muses had stopped being goddesses to the other Tirolian clones. But, though they had stayed on Earth for a long time, the Muses were always welcomed when they came, were always integrated into the clone circle as if they had never left it, perhaps as a vestige of that worship.

Or maybe it was just that their music was that good. They were adaptable, able to fit into any era with ease, welcoming innovation and change instead of growing sour over it.

It was in Lantas' house that several of the clones had gathered this time, and the Muses had said that they wanted to sing and play, anyone being able to join in. Lantas had added her voice to it with some reluctance; even if her metallic tones had disappeared, she was as bad a singer as Exedore was, but had thought the act might lift her sprits.

The voices of many others also rose to the ceiling, unfettered and not totally melodic.

The two musicians had distinguished themselves: Allegra wore her blue hair in a short bob cut, while Musica's was extremely long, with a few small braids hidden among it, one encircling the back of her head. Despite both of them being much older than Lantas was, their hair still held its colour, though the faintest web of age lines marked their faces.

Being around the Muses always made Lantas feel strange. There was that agelessness, but they were also foreign in other ways. Many had worried for Musica's fate, being married to a human whom she would immensely outlive, and producing children that would not receive her long lifespan, either.

It was something Lantas was glad she had avoided. If she had wanted children, the thought of outliving child after child would not have deterred her, but she was glad for the protection that came with her real decision.

She could endure the teasing, the jokes about how it was a good choice because of how ugly any child of her and Exedore would be, and, worse, the pitying questions by those who actually meant well.

But Musica had seemed to live well with the descendents of the family she had founded, was able to rise above that situation and keep wanting to live, just as the other clones had done under similar conditions.

It was true that Lantas couldn't see into the Muses' most private moments, but that was the impression she, as an outsider, received: that it was a very hard life, but they had wanted to seize it.

And here _she_ was, who had been spared by simple twists of biology and circumstance, lamenting about her own way of being! If Musica, after enduring all that, could still desire to live, what was she doing, seeing only grey in front of her and behind?

After the singing was done, Lantas closed her eyes and listened to their music. Eventually it gave way to laughter and banter, and she had to come back down to the ground again. She let herself be bumped and jostled a little bit, her hands shook and her shoulders patted. She was teased and teased back.

There came a creaking on the hidden stairway. The door in the wall opened to reveal Exedore, wearing his toga-robe again.

Several clones sprang from their chairs and couches and called greetings to him, back late from Fantoma. Lantas rose from the couch, and the rest of the group parted like water, without any of them even turning around to notice her.

At the hem of Exedore's robe trailed his pet, White, a Pollinator derivative created by the growing segment of Praxians who were trading their weapons and thongs for the ways of their ancient ancestors.

Lantas had been responsible for that. She had discovered the forgotten truth in her exploration of older Tirolian records, that Praxis had once been a technologically-advanced civilization, reduced to primitivism by a series of wars and the rise of a Luddite faction which had convinced everyone that abandoning high technology was for the peace of all.

It had been a side project, so Lantas had spent years gathering facts, composing a presentation, and gaining permission to visit New Praxis, working uphill against the women's aversion to scientists and artificial beings, and the opinions of commentators who felt she was imposing "her" culture on the Praxians, to which Lantas had angrily replied that science was not a culture.

But things had come through, though it had taken decades for it to develop to the point of their handing out genetically-modified pets.

Lantas licked her lips. And only this life had allowed her to see her actions reach this fruition. She had to remember the fact, hold on to it, add it to her growing store.

Lantas remembered giving White to Exedore, thrusting out her hands once she'd reached the house, the blue-wrapped bundle held in her upturned palms. "Look at this."

He had peeled one corner back, revealing the small head. The animal's fringe hadn't grown in yet, leaving visible its huge dark eyes with their faint iridescence.

"Ah." Exedore had stooped down slightly to get a better look. "Very interesting."

"They gave me it as a gift. I think you would make a better pet out of it than I would." Exedore had mentioned developing a fondness for the original creatures after having to take care of a pack of them during the Sentinels campaign.

As Exedore took it, he had worn the same look he always did whenever someone paid him an act of kindness: one of slight bewilderment, before reclaiming his equilibrium a moment later. Little wonder, when he had been bred to serve others. "Thank you, Lantas. This is quite nice."

And Exedore seemed to like having him. White did not feed on Flowers nor teleport, sported shorter ears and tail than his ancestors, and was a little bit larger and calmer than a Pollinator, but also small enough that Exedore could easily carry him about.

"So they're going to go through with it?" Shizu was asking Exedore now, as the topic of conversation had turned to the Zentraedi future. She seemed worried.

"Well, yes. Fantoma has never been the ideal place to raise a civilization; they simply needed a place of safety and familiarity while their numbers could grow. But their departure shall not happen for a while yet, and I will be involved with them until the very end. Already they are promising that they shall not forget me.

"I have made my home upon Tirol. That cannot change. I will simply have to find something else to occupy my time."

Lantas felt her face crinkle. It would hurt him, though, when the time came. It was a thought which had occurred to her before, knowing sooner than the others that things would eventually reach this state.

Though he was Micronized, Exedore was still valued by the Zentraedi, and it had been so since their resettling of Fantoma. He had become their historian, teacher, archivist, and quasi-sage as he absorbed and preserved the knowledge of the generations passing on Fantoma.

As well, he had been directed to go to the other worlds and gather information to fill the Fantoman databanks, so that the Zentraedi could better understand the world that they were in.

Lantas had accompanied Exedore on these voyages to satisfy her own investigative urges. _That_ had certainly helped with the longer lifespan, having all these planets within reach to explore.

Exedore had overcome the conditioning which drove him to want to be _useful_ to someone above him at the expense of any individual desires, but in its place had come a genuine desire to help the Zentraedi build their civilization.

Lantas had never had a problem with it. As long as she did not find his affection wanting, it was all right if he had this other devotion. The both of them were workers, intellectuals, and needed to cultivate that in order to truly live.

Exedore now integrated himself with into the other clones' conversation easily, as if he had never been gone. But gradually it had dissolved, as the rest of the clones all left the house. Lantas and Exedore made sure to see each one off politely, with the unspoken promise that they would all meet each other at the next gathering, at someone else's domicile.

When the last were gone, Exedore and Lantas paused for a moment, and then tentatively kissed. The gesture had lost some warmth with its constant familiarity, but it was never just a chore. Lantas pulled gently away from him, smiling.

"I have something for you." Exedore reached into one of his robe's voluminous sleeves, where there were small hidden pouches. His hand returned with what seemed to be two strips of gold cloth, which he laid out on the nearest table.

Lantas looked closer and saw the strips were woven of finely linked metal and fabric. There was an extra tab inside each end, which ran parallel to the proper edge for about a quarter of the length. These were tipped with the tiny spikes of a computer connection.

In the centre of each bands was a large stone. One was an elongated hexagon, magenta, like the chest-jewel of Exedore's ancient filmic representation. The other bauble was green and octagonal, the shape of no significance that Lantas could remember.

Exedore took "his" jewel between his fingers and connected the wide end to one of the band's edges, thus marking it as a fashionable data crystal. A projescreen sprang up in the air above the contraption, one without benefit of a monitor. Exedore used one finger to trace through its contents, tapping out silent commands on it.

Rivers of text flowed in that small square of space, slowly enough that Lantas could recognize their contents: newspaper articles, journal entries, psychological exams, book scripts, and many other things. After this, Exedore went through its pictures, the familiar faces and situations.

"I have downloaded everything of this onto yours," he said, deactivating it. Their libraries of information were very similar to each other's; very few of their things were jointly owned. "But you shall make the choice of what you wish to keep. Recall all that you have experienced, and what you have yet to, and how superior it is to what we were before."

Exedore returned the data crystal to its socket, and picked up the strap, connecting it around his neck so that it formed a choker, with the crystal facing the back.

He put the green crystal inside the other strap, and walked up to her with it in his hands. He had to stand on tiptoe, as usual, but Lantas obligingly lowered herself and tilted her head back to allow Exedore to connect it.

It was her turn to speak, but Lantas found she couldn't. Slowly, she touched the choker. "You know what this connotes, don't you?"

"It is not the Tirolian custom," he replied, mildly. "Furthermore, it is not as though we were ever _afraid_ of anything that could refer to marriage, were we?"

She chuckled. "No." The technology was all what was standard today, but for _him_ to combine it in such an _aesthetic_ way....

Lantas touched it again. Its material would not last forever, but now she could take her memories around with her, let them remind her what she had gained, and modify it according to her wishes. No, the bad phase certainly wasn't over yet, but....

Yes, definitely worth keeping.

**End.**


End file.
